


I am Vengeance, I am the Night

by heyjupiter



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyjupiter/pseuds/heyjupiter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Mike Ehrmantraut went from being an honest Philly cop & father of a Batman-loving son to being an honest hit man, devoted grandfather, & reluctant mentor to Jesse Pinkman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am Vengeance, I am the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veradune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veradune/gifts).



> Thanks very much to my wonderful beta reader, falafelfiction!
> 
> Written for Blue Christmeth 2013 for veradune who requested, "Any speculation about what happened to Mike's son and how Jesse may or may not remind Mike of him." I loved the prompt & hope you enjoy the resulting fic!
> 
> Title is from Batman: the Animated Series, as probably most humans know.

**1986**

"Mike, are you sure it's a good idea to take Tommy to the range? He's so young."

"He's thirteen years old, Suzie. I was younger than that when my dad taught me how to shoot. Anyway, it's perfectly safe. You know I'll take all the necessary precautions." 

"Oh, I know, but… he's so sensitive. I think it might give him nightmares."

His wife's a kindergarten teacher, and sometimes Mike's not sure if she's noticed that Tommy's aged out of her classroom. She thinks their son is "sensitive." Mike thinks he's a bit of a mama's boy. Not that he'd tell that to Suzie, of course. Mike's not an idiot. 

He says, "It'll just be shooting targets. I'm not taking him out to kill Bambi's mother. Besides, it'll be good for him to get outside for a little while. All he does is read comic books."

"Tommy's an excellent student," Suzie protests.

"Okay, sure, but he could still use a breath of fresh air."

"So take him hiking."

Mike plays his trump card and says, "Look, you know I gotta have a gun in the house for my job. Isn't it better the kid should be familiar with it? It'll keep him safer."

Suzie sighs. "Fine. Teach him the basics. But if he doesn't like it, you can't make him keep it up, okay? It's important that we encourage Tommy's own interests, not our own." 

Mike nods. "We'll be back before dinner," he says.

This is a conversation they've had many times, without coming to any real conclusion. Mike thinks it might be easier if Tommy weren't an only child, but Suzie had had a hard enough time with her first pregnancy that they'd decided not to try for any more. Mike still remembers how unbearable the last few months had been for both of them. He'd lay down his life for his wife and his son, but he couldn't do a damn thing against the hyperemesis gravidarum that confined her to bed rest and an IV drip for the last few months of her pregnancy. So Tommy's their only child, and they both love him very much, but in different ways. Suzie wants to shield him from the world, and Mike wants to toughen him up so he can survive it?

He sticks his head in Tommy's room and says, "Hey, kid, what are you up to?"

Tommy barely looks up from his comics and says, "Reading." His dark hair is getting too long, and it falls into his eyes when he reads. Mike should take him to the barbershop, unless that's just how kids are wearing their hair these days? He finds it hard to keep up with such things. He has been told repeatedly that Tommy's shirts are too big on purpose, so he's stopped mentioning how ridiculous he thinks the style is.

"Well, put your shoes on, I wanna take you to the range, show you some basics of gun safety."

"A gun is a coward's weapon."

"What? Says who?"

"Batman," Tommy says, nodding his head toward his comic book.

"Well, last time I checked, _Batman_ wasn't real. Are you proposing the police force start using those little throwing stars instead of guns? Think that'll keep crime down in Philly?" 

"They're called batarangs, Dad." 

"Jesus Christ," Mike mutters. Louder, he says, "Just put your shoes on, Tommy. This is important." He tries, and fails, to imagine telling his own father anything about "batarangs."

" _Fine_ ," Tommy says, but his tone makes his displeasure clear. He is a teenager, if only barely. 

Mike unlocks his gun safe and picks out a few handguns. He thinks a 9mm compact will be easiest for Tommy to start with, and he pulls his standard-issue .45 for himself. He lets Tommy read comics in the car--it's a 20 minute drive out of town to the gun club with an outdoor range, but even with Tommy drumming his fingers on the dashboard the whole way there, Mike thinks the trip is worth it. The indoor range most of his fellow officers use always feels a bit claustrophobic to him. 

Once they're at the club, before anything else, he makes Tommy read a pamphlet of the "12 Golden Rules of Gun Safety."

"Dad, you've been telling me this stuff since I was a little kid." 

It's true; Mike has always been careful to let Tommy see him unloading his guns and properly storing them, and Tommy has always known that he's never, ever supposed to play with guns.

"Well, it won't kill you to read this pamphlet. On the other hand, ignoring the rules of gun safety _might_ kill you. I've gone on those calls, Tommy. I've seen what happens when kids don't know their gun safety, and it's not pretty, believe me."

"All right, all right. But seriously, what kind of idiot would point a gun at somebody?"

"Oh, there's plenty of idiots out there," Mike says grimly. 

Tommy makes a face, but he finishes the pamphlet. Then Mike helps him get appropriately small eye and ear protection, signs a waiver indicating that he's Tommy's parent and legal guardian, and buys some ammo for each of them. Out at the range, the gaggle of other shooters declares it a hot line, and Mike guides Tommy through the steps of loading his gun. Finally, he shows him, step by step, how to stand, how to hold his arms, how to aim, how to prepare for recoil. 

"Okay, kiddo, what's next?" he asks, nearly yelling to be heard over the earmuffs.

"Take the safety off?"

"You got it," Mike says. He watches as Tommy's first shot grazes the corner of the target sheet, not even hitting the target's outer ring. He wobbles backward from the recoil, but Mike's pleased to note that he instinctively points the gun down at the ground after firing. 

Mike pats his shoulder. "Not bad for a first try, kid. You've got 14 more rounds."

Tomy sighs and keeps going. His shots are scattered all over the place. He does manage to get a few into the outer ring of the target, but nothing near a bullseye. 

"Look, you're getting better already," he tells Tommy. 

Tommy shrugs. "Your turn, dad."

"So it is." Mike slowly loads his gun, modeling all the steps for his son. Then he shows the correct stance and fires his whole cartridge, one after another. Most hit the bullseye; all are within the target's inner ring.

Tommy looks unimpressed, and Mike wonders when exactly that happened. When Tommy was younger, he'd looked up to Mike. He'd dressed like a policeman for Halloween when he was six. But when he was seven, he'd been Batman, and hadn't looked back, it seems. 

They use up the ammo Mike bought, and then Tommy says, "Can we go home now?"

"Fine," Mike says. They wait until the range is cold to pack up their weapons and leave. 

On the way home, Tommy asks, "Dad, have you ever shot anyone?"

"I've been a cop for 16 years, Tommy."

"So… yes?"

"Yes, I've shot people. Criminals," Mike says.

"Have you _killed_ anyone?"

"Yes," Mike says. He's not ashamed of it, not even now, when his own son is glancing at him like he's a murderer. "It was in the line of duty. If I hadn't killed the guy, he would have killed another police officer."

"You could have just wounded him or something, to make him stop," Tommy says. "You're a good shot."

Mike sighs. "Kid, when you're out in the real world, things aren't always so neat and tidy as they are on the range. I never aim to kill, I aim to disable. That's what we're taught at the police academy. But… people move around."

Tommy's quiet for a long moment, and then he says, "I don't like guns."

"All right, Tommy, you don't have to like them. You just have to know how to use them safely."

"Yeah, I got it."

Tommy pretends to be asleep on the ride home. Once home, he immediately retreats to his bedroom and claims not to be hungry at suppertime. Suzie doesn't say "I told you so," but Mike can still sense it radiating from her. Mike supposes there are worse things in life than having a mama's boy for a son. He's a good kid. And when he gets older, maybe he'll understand that the world needs guys like Mike in it, because there's no such thing as Batman.

* * *

**1991**

"Officer Michael Ehrmantraut is to be commended for his valor in the line of duty," Mayor Goode reads off a little card. "On March 2nd, he and his partner Robert O'Connell responded to a call that put them in the middle of gang violence in Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park. Officer Ehrmantraut, at great personal risk to himself, rescued a young girl who was playing on the swings nearby and brought her to safety. This action truly represents the best of what the Philadelphia Police Department strives to be," "Thank you for your service, Officer Ehrmantraut." 

As he'd been instructed before the ceremony, Mike steps forward and lets the mayor put a goddamn medal around his neck. Mike nods and shakes hands with the mayor, and then steps back in line with the other cops getting awards tonight. He'd bet his life savings that they're all feeling the same as him: uncomfortable in their dress uniforms and about the whole concept of getting a medal just for doing their jobs. He stands quietly and listens to his colleagues get praised by some politician with a cushy desk job.

After the ceremony, there's a dinner at the Fraternal Order of Police lodge. Suzie's dressed up to the nines and she looks more beautiful than ever. "I'm _so proud_ of you," she says. "You work so hard, it's about time someone recognized that."

Mike shrugs and eats his steak. "Just doing my job, honey."

"Is it true, what the mayor said?" Tommy asks. He's sitting across from Mike and looking at him with an intent expression. Mike still thinks his hair is too long, but he's got it slicked down with something so it doesn't fall in his eyes anymore.

"What do you mean?" Mike asks.

"That you saved that little girl?"

Mike shrugs again. "Yeah."

"You never said anything about it," Tommy says.

"You know your father's a man of few words," Suzie says.

"I was just doing my job."

"I never…" Tommy trails off. "I guess mostly when there are stories about cops on the news, it's because they, you know, did something wrong."

"Tommy!" Suzie scolds.

"Eh, the kid's got a point," Mike says. "You sell more papers with a corrupt cop than with one answering a DV call or something." He waves a bite of steak around to emphasize his point, then puts it in his mouth.

"Your father's very brave," Suzie says. "I know you two don't always see eye to eye, but you should know that about him." 

Tommy had wanted to wear a "Free Mumia" T-shirt to the award ceremony tonight. When his parents asked him to change, Tommy had protested that his free speech was being curtailed, and Mike said, "You can have all the free speech you want, but just keep in mind, you wear that shirt tonight, you're gonna be surrounded by cops who used to work with the guy Mumia killed. _Allegedly._ "

Suzie had said, "There's free speech, sweetie, and there's courtesy. I don't care if you wear it to school, but it's rude to wear it tonight." Tommy had huffed but ultimately put a button-down shirt over his T-shirt.

Tommy nods and says, "Well, um, I'm proud of you, Dad."

Mike swallows his steak and nods. Suzie says, "That's sweet, Tommy. I'm sure your father appreciates the sentiment."

She kicks him under the table, and Mike, who has been frequently chided for not being expressive enough with his son, says, "Yeah. Thanks, Tommy."

"You're welcome," Tommy says, shrugging and looking down at his plate. 

"You know, if you're really curious about my job, you could do a ride-along with me sometime." 

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea," Suzie says immediately.

"It's perfectly fine, Suzie. We have officers' kids do it all the time. You're 18 now, so you don't even need parental consent. Anyway, it's up to you, Tommy."

"Yeah… maybe," Tommy says.

"Well, you're not missing school for it," Suzie says.

"It's his senior year, Suzie. Let him live," Mike says, then adds to Tommy, "I'll pull you out of school for it, if you want to do it. You just can't wear the Mumia shirt."

Tommy looks sheepish and says, "Did you really know him? Um, the cop who died?"

"His name was Daniel Faulkner, and yes, I did. Not well, but I knew him," Mike says.

"And you don't--you don't think Mumia was framed for it?"

Mike shrugs. "I'm not a judge. It doesn't matter what I think. It just matters what I do."

"Oh. That's… kinda deep," Tommy says, surprised. "But I mean, have you read the statements from--"

Suzie, looking pointedly around the room full of police officers in their dress uniforms, says, "Tommy, not here."

Mike says, "You can read all you want and it's not gonna change the fact that there's a widow walking around Philly who has to keep seeing T-shirts asking for her husband's killer to be freed."

"But what if it's _not_ his killer?" Tommy persists.

"Well, the Supreme Court denied his appeal last year, so it seems pretty likely that he is," Mike says tiredly. He sees Free Mumia shirts, stickers, and graffiti everywhere and still doesn't really understand it. It seems pretty clear to him that Mumia's a killer, not a hero. He can't wrap his head around how his own son has more sympathy for some Black Panther murderer than for the widow of a police officer. "Tell you what, Tommy, how about if you make a T-shirt asking gang members to stop shooting kids? Or husbands to stop beating their wives? Or drug dealers to stop selling crack? You might get a little further with one of those." 

Suzie says, "Okay, let's just calm down." 

"I'm calm," Mike says. "Who's not calm? I'm glad we've got a kid who can speak his mind. I just want him to have all the facts."

"Really?" Tommy asks. 

"Really." 

"It seems like you think I'm kind of an idiot a lot of the time."

Mike shrugs. "Most teenagers say a lot of idiotic things. I fully expect you'll grow out of it."

"Oh. Um, thanks?" Tommy says, crinkling his eyebrows hesitantly.

"What your father means to say is that we're both very proud of you," Suzie says.

"Yeah, I got it," Tommy says. He grins at the faint praise.

Mike wonders if there's any such thing as a father like the ones on TV. He's sure Andy Griffith would have handled this conversation better, but it's just not Mike's style. He loves Tommy, of course he does, but does he need to go around saying it all the time?

* * *

**2001**

Mike's line of work means he's been to a lot of funerals. This one should feel different, since it's his son's, but so far it just seems like the same bullshit. 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, all that bullshit from a pastor who'd probably never even met Tommy but still stands in front of this crowd of people, talking about how bravely Officer Thomas Michael Ehrmantraut had sacrificed his life in the line of duty, how much his widow Dianne and their daughter Kaylee would miss him. That last part is true, of course, but it doesn't mean the pastor isn't full of shit. On either side of him, Suzie and Dianne are weeping as if they'll never stop, but Mike's eyes are dry. 

When Kaylee starts wailing, Mike scoops her off of Dianne's lap and takes her out into the hallway. It's easier to focus on the simple needs of a baby than on the numbness that he suspects will eventually be overtaken by grief. Her diaper is still dry, and Dianne had nursed her right before the service, so Mike guesses she's just overwhelmed. "It's okay, Kaylee," he murmurs, although it isn't. 

He rocks her and gazes down at her tiny face. Her eyes are deep blue, just like Tommy's had been when he was a baby. Had that really been 28 years ago? Eventually, she falls closes her eyes and falls asleep, and then he carries her back into the service. The pastor has stopped talking, and the Santa Fe chief of police is talking about what a hero Officer Ehrmantraut was, and how they would find his killer and bring him to justice. It's more bullshit, and then there's some singing, and then there's the horrible receiving line where strangers come up and tell them how said they were, how much they'll miss Tom. Mike nods and smiles and thanks them and hates them, hates all these people who haven't lost their only son the way he has.

Afterward, they go back to Dianne and Tommy's house and receive a few casseroles from neighbors and some of Tommy's former officers. Dianne's parents and sisters join them, and Mike hates them a little bit, too. They're sad, of course, but their children are still alive. 

While the others are sitting in the living room, eating and sharing stories, Mike quietly slips away. He doesn't want to hear any more. He's been out to visit this house once before, and he knows which room is Tommy and Dianne's bedroom. He slips inside and runs his hands over Tommy's things. He's not sure what he's looking for, but when he finds a shelf full of Batman books, he picks one at random and sits down on the floor to read it, ignoring the slight creak his knees have developed. He's engrossed in _The Dark Knight Returns_ when Dianne comes in.

"Oh, there you are," she says.

"Yeah," Mike says. "Here I am."

"Mind if I join you?"

Mike gestures at the floor next to him, and she sits down and asks, "You like Batman?"

"I guess. I liked the show when I was a kid. Never read the comic books really, but Tommy was crazy about them when he was a kid."

"He still is. Was. _Shit_ ," Dianne says, and Mike knows how she feels.

"I think he became a cop because of Batman. Always playing at fighting bad guys."

Dianne looks at him strangely. "He became a cop because of _you_."

"I dunno. He never seemed that interested in my job. I'm not sure he was cut out for it, to tell you the truth."

Dianne shakes her head. "He told me you never liked to talk about your job, but that he always admired you. He told me about that medal you won, how he wanted to be…" her breath hitches, and she sniffles as she finishes, "brave like you."

"Oh, Jesus," Mike says. 

"You're not really like how Tom described you."

"No?"

"I mean, he always…" Dianne pulls a used Kleenex out of her pocket and wipes her nose. "He always described you as being kind of a stoic, old-fashioned kind of dad. But I see how you are with Kaylee, and… " 

Mike shrugs. "I did the best I could."

"You did good," Dianne says. "I didn't mean to--I didn't--oh, God, I'm a single mom now. How am I gonna do this?"

Mike squeezes her shoulder lightly. "You'll do the best you can. Suzie and I can help out, and your parents too, I'm sure."

Dianne sniffs. "Yeah, I guess."

"Are you worried about money? You'll get widow's benefits. I can help you out with that. With the paperwork." 

Dianne works at an art gallery, and Mike knows her parents are working class; they hadn't been able to help out much with the wedding, and they'd been embarrassed about that. Mike and Suzie, with their police and teacher's incomes, weren't that much better off, but they only had one child and they were frugal. They'd paid for most of the wedding, and been happy to do so. 

She nods. "I… thank you, I appreciate that. Just… we moved to Albuquerque last year because of me, for my job, and… we're just kind of cut off from family…"

"Well, Suzie and I aren't that far from retirement. Maybe we'll move south."

"That'd be… nice," Dianne says. Then she sighs. "I'd better get back before they send out a search party. But, um, if you want to take any of Tom's books, just go ahead. I'm sure he'd be happy you were reading some Batman." 

Mike nods. "Thanks." 

Dianne climbs back up from the floor and leaves Mike in peace. He keeps reading, and he thinks he understands the appeal Batman had for young Tommy. Batman had lost his parents and emerged stronger for it. He was better than the criminals, but he was better than the police, too. 

Sitting on the floor of his dead son's bedroom, Mike reads, "A gun is a coward's weapon. A liar's weapon. We kill too often because we've made it easy... too easy... sparing ourselves the mess and the work." 

And for the first time that day, he cries.

* * *

**2003**

Mike's business phone rings on hour three of his stakeout at the Crossroads Motel and he answers it, "Mike Ehrmantraut Investigations," expecting the usual--a husband who suspects his wife of cheating, or a girlfriend who wants a background check on her potential husband. Mundane stuff, but it pays better than the Philadelphia Police Department ever had. 

"This is Saul Goodman, attorney at law. You've probably seen my commercials."

"I have," Mike allows. He's sure everyone within a 100-mile radius of Albuquerque has seen them.

"Well, I've got a job for you, if you're interested."

"If you'll pay me, I'm interested."

"I thought as much. I'll transfer you to my secretary, she'll make an appointment for you to come in."

"You can't just tell me over the phone?"

Saul hesitates. "It's a task of a delicate nature," he says. "I would prefer to discuss it in person."

"Whatever," Mike replies. He talks to Saul's secretary, who sounds a bit frazzled, and arranges to come in later that afternoon. Saul's office is garish, like his commercials. Mike mentally raises his prices by 20%. 

"Ah, so nice to meet you, Mr. Ehrmantraut," Saul says. "I've read a lot about you."

"Charmed, I'm sure," Mike says. 

Saul's face registers the sarcasm and he says, "Well, you're a busy man, and so am I, so let's get down to business. I have a client who prefers to remain confidential, for reasons which will become clear, who has a few… loose ends he needs to take care of. Nice and clean, you understand."

Mike lets the phrase hang in the air for a long moment before saying, calmly, "I'm not sure what you've heard about me, but I'm a private investigator. I investigate. That's all."

"Sure, sure," Saul says. "I know all about private investigators." He opens a file folder and says, "I had one get some information about you, Mr. Ehrmantraut. Left the Philadelphia Police Department abruptly, just a few years before you hit retirement age, moved to New Mexico, and became a licensed PI. Right around the time that Kyle Sullivan, the man accused of killing your son, Thomas Ehrmantraut, was found 'not guilty.' Right around the time that Kyle Sullivan disappeared without a trace."

Mike stares at Saul until the greasy lawyer clears his throat and looks down at his desk. 

"Look," Saul says, "I don't care what happened to Kyle Sullivan. I doubt anyone does. Well, maybe someone at the local police department might care a teeny tiny bit. But, personally, I admire the work of… whoever's responsible for what may have happened to him. Allegedly. And I have a client who's prepared to pay $100,000 for… similar work. Each. In cash." 

By all rights, Mike should storm out of Saul's office. He's not a cop anymore, but he isn't some kind of hit man, either. He had just carried out a single act of vigilante justice, a full measure where the court system had provided a half. 

But instead, he allows himself to think about what $100,000 could do for Kaylee. That would be college, right there, whatever college she'd want. 

Saul passes a manila envelope across the desk. "Here, why don't you just take a look at this information. See what you think."

Mike opens the folder and learns about Miguel de la Cruz and Jesus Alvarez. He recognizes their type even before reading their descriptions. Medium-time drug dealers who'd ratted. Probably no big loss to the world. $200,000 would be college for Kaylee _and_ a new house for Dianne. Well, maybe not. He'd have to think about how to do that. She'd be suspicious if he suddenly had that much money. Still, he's sure it's better in his hands than it is in whoever can afford to pay that kind of money for a hit man. Besides, if Mike doesn't do it, even if Saul doesn't follow through on the veiled threat he's making, Saul will find someone else to do it. That's how it works, he knows. 

"In cash," Mike says.

Saul smiles. "Glad we're on the same page, Mr. Ehrmantraut. Now, my client values discretion above all else, but would prefer this work be carried out as soon as possible. Call me when it's done and we'll talk about the next step."

"I need cash up front. I'm gonna need a few things for this job. And to make me feel comfortable with the risk involved."

"Ah, of course, I thought you might say that," Saul says. He reaches under his desk and pulls out a briefcase, which he hands to Mike. Mike opens it and sees more cash than he's ever seen outside of the PPD evidence room. "It's $50,000. Do you feel comfortable with that?"

Mike puts the file folder with his targets on top of the money, snaps the briefcase shut and says, "I'll take care of it."

"A pleasure doing business with you," Saul says. "I doubt I need to tell you how dire the consequences would be if my client was… unsatisfied with your work?"

"Yeah, I get the picture," Mike says.

"Excellent. Then I hope to see you again soon."

Mike nods and takes the briefcase out to his car. He drives back to his apartment and checks his personal answering machine. There's a reminder about his dental cleaning the next morning, and a message from Suzie asking him to please call her back so they can coordinate on Kaylee's birthday presents. Their divorce had been fairly amicable, as far as these things go. Their lawyer had told them that most marriages don't survive the death of a child, as if that was supposed to make them feel better. When it came down to it, their problem was that Suzie felt Tommy's death too strongly, and Mike had felt only a terrible numbness. 

He had thought getting revenge on Tommy's killer might help, but it hadn't, not really. He'd felt a grim satisfaction about taking that dirtbag off the streets before he could kill any more cops, but he hadn't felt the release he'd hoped for. He supposes that killing these drug dealers won't make him feel anything either. He thinks it will be easy. He wonders what their parents will think. Perhaps they're already dead, or have already written off their wayward sons. Mike hopes that's the case. If it isn't, well, they've already had more years with their children than Mike got.

He dials the number of a guy who can get him a clean gun.

* * *

**2010**

"Kid, you gotta eat something. We've got a big day, and I don't have time for you to pass out from low blood sugar."

Jesse's using a home fry dipped in ketchup to draw on his plate. At least his hands aren't shaking so bad today. All things considered, he looks okay for somebody who nearly got shot yesterday. Mike frowns at the memory of the kid just standing wide-eyed while bullets were fired at him. 

Jesse looks up at Mike, sighs, and puts the fry in his mouth. After dutifully chewing and swallowing, he says, "So, what's going on today? Another sketchy meeting in the middle of nowhere?" 

"Something like that."

"Right, of course, why explain anything to me?" Jesse says, adding some mayonnaise to his ketchup drawing. 

"I swear to God, Jesse, eat your food so we can hit the road. I'll tell you everything you need to know," Mike says, which he believes is true. 

Jesse puts a bite of cheese omelet in his mouth as if it's made of sandpaper. He methodically eats half of it and then says pleadingly, "Mike, I can't eat any more of this. It's too early for food."

"All right, let's go," Mike says. He figures Jesse's probably still detoxing and maybe suffering from PTSD or something, so it's no surprise he doesn't have much of an appetite. At least he's got something in his stomach besides coffee.

Jesse crumples a napkin over his plate and follows Mike out. Jesse settles into the passenger seat and immediately starts drumming his fingers on the door. By now, Mike has learned that this is one of Jesse's least annoying habits, so he says nothing. Mike leaves the diner behind and drives off into the desert. He'd picked Jesse up early for two good reasons: to make sure he was staying sober after the stress of the previous day, and so they could have plenty of time out in the desert before it gets too hot. 

He figures it's going to take awhile to teach the kid how to use a gun properly. It's something he's been meaning to do for a few weeks, but there just hadn't been an opportune time. More than that, Mike had realized he'd been putting it off. The thought of teaching this kid how to use a gun had been vaguely painful to Mike, and he had allowed other tasks to take precedence.

But time is of the essence now; he wants Jesse to know how to use a gun before they go to Mexico. Anyway, it isn't like him to let a little pain get in the way of a job he need to do.

Shortly after they leave Albuquerque city limits, Mike realizes Jesse's been quiet for a surprisingly long time. He glances sideways and realizes the kid's fallen asleep against the car door. He looks even younger than normal. Mike pulls the car onto the shoulder of the road at the remote spot where he plans to set up his erstwhile range and decides to let Jesse sleep for a few more minutes. He sets up the targets himself, and then returns to the car and shakes Jesse awake. Jesse flinches and looks around wildly. 

"Wake up, kid, we got work to do." Jesse catches his breath and nods. "Get your gun and get out of the car," Mike adds. 

Jesse rubs his eyes blearily, pulls his gun out of the glove compartment, and looks around. "There's nobody here." 

"That's the point, Jesse. We're just practicing." 

"Oh." Jesse relaxes marginally. 

Mike rolls his eyes. "Jesse, I'm just showing you some of the basics so you can handle a weapon safely in case you need to defend yourself. You know, instead of just standing around like an idiot while cartel guys shoot at you."

"I already know how to use a gun," Jesse protests. 

"Really? Sure didn't look like it to me."

"Whatever," Jesse mumbles.

Mike sets his own gun down on top of the car's closed trunk and beckons Jesse to join him. "For starters, you know how to load that thing?"

Jesse fumbles with the magazine release and Mike says, "No, no. Don't aim it at anything you don't want getting shot."

"I'm not aiming it at anything!"

"Really. Where's the barrel of your gun pointed right now?"

Jesse looks down and realizes it's pointed at his own face. He turns it around and Mike says, "Right. Point it at the ground. Good." Mike has him load and unload it a few more times before he's satisfied. Jesse's a surprisingly quick study. Or maybe it's not so surprising; Jesse's desire for approval is obvious, and Mike knows he'll take it wherever he can get it, be it from Walter or Gus or Mike himself.

"Okay. Good. Now let's practice with the targets. C'mon." Mike leads Jesse a few paces out into the desert, about 20 meters from the targets he'd set up.

Jesse looks out at the silhouette targets and back at Mike. "You want me to shoot them in the head or what?" He sounds too casual. Jesse isn't good at hiding his feelings. 

Mike says, "Anywhere on the target will be fine, Jesse. First show me how you're gonna stand."

"Uh, I dunno, like this?" Jesse says, waving the hand that's not holding the gun vaguely toward his feet.

Mike shows Jesse the Weaver stance. He gets the feet right, but holds it like it's a toy. "The idea is to have opposite pressure from your hands."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

Mike demonstrates, and says, "Put your left hand around your right hand, and then you push forward with your right hand and pull backward with your left hand."

Jesse tries it and says, "This feels weird."

"You'll get used to it, and it'll keep the gun steadier."

"Okay. Uh, is this good?" Jesse asks.

Mike reaches in his pockets and pulls out two pairs of earplugs. "Last thing," he says, handing one pair to Jesse.

"Really?"

Mike shrugs and puts one pair in himself. "Suit yourself if you don't want them. Nice to have the option, though. God knows you don't always get the choice to put them in."

Jesse rolls his eyes but follows suit. Then he gets back into the stance perfectly and looks to Mike for approval.

Mike nods, but taps the safety on his own gun. Jesse turns his safety off, returns to the stance, and carefully aims at the target. He fires, and it hits the silhouette in the neck. Jesse fires off the whole clip, and the majority of them are actually kill shots. 

"Not bad, kid," he says loudly.

"I, uh, play a lot of video games." Jesse's eyes flick between the target, the gun, Mike, the desert, and his breathing is rapid. 

"Of course you do." Mike sizes up Jesse for a moment, pulls out his own earplugs, and says, "C'mon, let's reload." 

Jesse follows Mike back to the car and reloads. He's much quieter than Mike's used to, and Mike makes him drink some water before going back out. As the morning goes on, it becomes clear to Mike that Jesse hates this more than anything else Mike has made him do. He's being quiet and efficient and not wasting any time at all, obviously hoping to get out of there as soon as possible. Still, they stay out there until Mike feels satisfied with Jesse's performance. 

Finally, Mike says, "Okay, that's about enough. We've got other stuff to do."

Jesse exhales loudly and puts the gun back in the glove compartment. He flops into the passenger seat, looking exhausted.

"You okay there?" Mike asks. He's noticed that Jesse's weirdly sensitive for a meth cook. At first he'd chalked it up to the lost girlfriend, and the drugs, but even sober, Jesse just doesn't seem cut out for this life.

Jesse glances at him sidelong. He's quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "I never wanted… I didn't want to kill Gale. Or anything. I just… "

"I know, Jesse. I know it was Walter's idea."

"I can't stop thinking… I… it would be easier. If I could just have one bump…"

Mike shakes his head. "No way, kid. We've all got things we gotta live with."

"Yeah. That's what they told me in rehab. I have to accept who I am. That I'm not a good person. I'm the bad guy."

" _That's_ what they told you in rehab?"

Jesse shrugs. "I mean, basically." 

"Hmm. Well. I think it's a little more complicated than that, Jesse. That's the problem with you kids. You think everything's so simple, black and white. Like Batman versus the goddamn Joker."

Jesse says, "No, that's, like, the whole point of Batman."

"What?"

"That not everything is black and white. That Batman always does what he thinks is right, even if it's outside the law, or whatever. It's complicated."

Mike sighs, unsurprised that Jesse has strong opinions about Batman. "The point is, there's no such thing as Batman. There's just people, and we make decisions based on the information available to us, and then we have to live with them. You made the decision to kill one man to save your partner's life, and your own." They don't talk about how Mike would have been the one to do it; they never have. Mike thinks Jesse understands that it wasn't personal, just business. "Now stop moping about it."

"Hey, good pep talk, yo," Jesse says. His tone is sarcastic, but there's no real heat in it.

Mike shrugs. He has a lot of highly specialized skills, but 'pep talks'' aren't one of them. "Look, Jesse, don't worry. Just stick with me, do what I tell you to do, and you'll be fine."

"Is that what you told Gale?"

"No. I never talked to Gale much," Mike says. His relationship with Gale had been only business, not personal, which is the way he prefers things. That's the problem with this babysitting job Gus gave him; things have gotten personal with Jesse now.

He understands the point Jesse's trying to make. Mike trusts Gus, but even Gus can't always control things the way he wants to. If he could, Gale would still be alive. The plan Gus proposed for Mexico is an extreme one. It will solve their problems, if it works. If it doesn't, Mike will do his best to protect Jesse. Because that's what Gus asked him to do; because that's what Mike said he'd do; because that's what Mike wants to do.

But Mike hasn't been able to protect everyone he wanted to protect. Not even Batman could do that, and Mike knows there's no such thing as Batman.

**Author's Note:**

> [Mumia Abu-Jamal](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mumia_Abu-Jamal) was imprisoned for the 1981 murder of a Philadelphia police officer Daniel Faulkner.
> 
> The Batman quote is from Frank Miller's 1986 classic _The Dark Knight Returns_.


End file.
